


Epilogue To A Nightmare

by Redlance



Category: Warehouse 13
Genre: F/F, Hurt/Comfort, comic epilogue, mild reference to violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-11-15
Updated: 2012-11-15
Packaged: 2017-11-18 18:17:17
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,011
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/564004
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Redlance/pseuds/Redlance
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After an evening of nightmares, the Warehouse team go in search of some closure.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Epilogue To A Nightmare

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Foxfire141](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Foxfire141/gifts).



> **Disclaimer** : Warehouse 13, the world and the characters that inhabit it do not belong to me in any way, though sometimes I lie awake at night wishing that they did and what I'd do with them if they did. And then I write those thoughts down.
> 
>  **A/N** : This is a continuation, and epilogue if you will, to [Foxfire141](http://foxfire141.deviantart.com/)'s Warehouse 13 comic “A Nightmare In Warehouse 13” that can be found here: [Part One](http://foxfire141.deviantart.com/gallery/38951484#/d5gzd8j), [Part Two](http://foxfire141.deviantart.com/gallery/38951484#/d5harx3), [Part Three](http://foxfire141.deviantart.com/gallery/38951484#/d5ho7nn), [Part Four](http://foxfire141.deviantart.com/gallery/38951484#/d5i32ug), [Part Five, ](http://foxfire141.deviantart.com/gallery/38951484#/d5j4tey)[Part Six](http://foxfire141.deviantart.com/gallery/38951484#/d5jfzyz), and [Part Seven](http://foxfire141.deviantart.com/gallery/38951484#/d5joayb). I'd definitely recommending reading that before you read this because a) it is amazing and b) this probably won't make sense if you haven't read it.

* * *

     Before new agents had been dispatched to throw a wrench into his works – stiffly grindingly, though functioning just fine for his tastes, thank you very much – the office at the Warehouse had become Artie's refuge. From what, he couldn't quite say. There hadn't been anyone around to bother him for a while – Mrs Frederic did of course 'pop in' from time to time, but he'd never accuse her of bothering him, even in the relative privacy of his own mind – and Leena was usually occupied by something at the B&B or was helping by taking inventory or ensuring the artifacts were all still properly neutralized down on the Warehouse floor.  
     Now, he was lucky to get a moment alone there at all. Claudia was usually sat millimetres from the computer screen, fingers tapping away at the speed of light, and Pete and Myka would come and go between missions or would be holed up at the table in the corner, pouring over paperwork. Well, Myka would pour over the paperwork. Pete would eat cookies over it and get crumbs all over the pages until Myka eventually snapped at him and banished him to walking the aisles.  
     After hours was usually the only time he was at least semi-guaranteed some peace and quiet. Some time to think. And he usually relished those moments alone. Usually.  
     Tonight, though he'd whisked himself away in his usual whirlwind of bluster and brusqueness, he found that his solitude was not the pleasant balm it often was. Tonight it seemed as though it would be nothing but a hindrance. An agitation to his rapidly darkening mood.  
     “You know, black isn't really your colour.” He started at the unexpected voice, almost dumping the mug of hot chocolate he held in a steaming mug in his hands all over the papers littering his desk. After letting loose a strangled, unintelligible curse or two, Artie lifted his head to find Leena standing opposite him, arms clasped before her, small smile playing across her lips, posture naught but serene. He stared at her for a moment, like a badger caught in the headlight of an oncoming freight train, wiry eyebrows twitching with fear. “It does nothing for your aura.” He came back to himself at that, placing his mug on the desk with a huff as he dropped eye contact.  
     “Shades too similar, are they?” He grumbled. Leena tilted her head, smile turning fond at the corners even as her eyebrows knitted together in concern.  
     “Artie....” He held up a hand, waving away her melodically warning tone and anything else she might have wished to say.  
     “We're not talking about this.” He griped, pointedly turning away from her to busy himself with checking to make sure all the files were still in the filing cabinet. Leena watched him with amusement for a few seconds. The dream might have been very realistic, disturbingly so at points, but it hadn't been more than that.  
     “It was just a dream.” And her smile faltered as he slammed the one he was currently searching through back into place with enough force to shake the entire wall.  
     “I am sick and tired of dreaming about people killing other people with knives!” Anger, frustration, weariness; Leena could see them all radiating off him in waves and her smile gave way entirely to the weight of her deepening frown.  
     “What are you talking about?” She stepped closer to him, reaching out with one hand to rest it against his upper arm. “Have you had this dream before?” He flinched at the touch and backed away from her, turning to avoid the look of hurt that blossomed across her face. Panic flashed in his eyes, too quick for anyone other than Leena to notice.  
     “Nothing. No. What?” And hiding his fluster and anxiety hadn't been something he'd managed to improve in all the years she'd known him. She folded her arms across her chest and fixed the back of his head with a stern look that she was certain the older man could feel.  
     “Artie.” He yanked open another drawer to the filing cabinet.  
     “We are **not** discussing this.” He repeated, though there was noticeably less gruffness to his voice and in all the years she'd know him, Leena also had learned when to press on and when to withdraw. Now was a time for the latter and so she dropped her arms and gave a shrug that went unseen by him.  
     “Okay. All right.” She gave an exaggerated sigh. “If you want to stew with your inner demons for a while longer, I'll leave you in peace. Artie closed his eyes and allowed himself a quick moment to revel in the relief washing over him before he stuffed the file he was holding back inside the 'M' drawer and muttered a quiet, slightly biting 'thank you'.  
     Arms were around him before he had time to even think about how to go about throwing them off.  
     “And when you decide you **do ******want to talk about them, you know where to find me.” And Leena pressed a fleeting kiss to the top of his head, then retreated before he had time to react. When he did, he half turned and flapped a hand harmlessly through the air where she'd been standing.  
     “Be gone, wretched Good Samaritan.” He grumbled, putting a little more force behind his words than was strictly necessary. He couldn't see Leena's smile as she made her way towards the door leading to the umbilicus, but he could hear it, and for a brief moment his own lips mimicked the expression. Then the dream flickered back to life and liberated it from his face. He fell into one of the chairs at the table and wrestled his glasses off, before letting his head fall into his hands.

* * *

     It might have been a long night and Pete's body might have been exhausted after having spent the majority of the evening running through the pitch black woods of his mind to evade a mutated, murderous English shepherd, but he couldn't sleep.  
     Everyone else had long since retired to bed, or at the very least to places slightly more private than the living room where they could all come to terms with the feelings their dreams had evoked, and that had left the space quite pleasantly free. So Pete had sprawled out across the couch and started absently flicking through the stations.  
     He hadn't been lying there long when something wet and cold bumped against the back of his outstretched arm. His thumb hovered in mid-air, poised over the 'channel up' button, and he slid his eyes to their corners.  
     A mass of bright white and russet fur greeted him.  
     “What do **you** want?” He muttered, resuming his channel surfing and finally stopping on a rerun of Quantum Leap. Trailer, of course, said nothing and simply continued to stare unwaveringly at Pete's profile. The man's attention flicked to the dog again, briefly. “Look, I don't want to talk about it.” And to help make his point, Pete punched the volume button a few times and then placed the remote on the floor beside the couch, before curling his arm around his head to provide him with a makeshift pillow. Trailer cocked his head and continued to stare at him for a moment longer, then turned tail and disappeared from Pete's periphery. The reclining man let out a heavy sigh and then refocused his attention on the television screen.  
     It hadn't been longer than a minute when Trailer came back, padding around the back of the couch so he was standing opposite Pete's feet, rubber newspaper in his mouth. Pete stared down the length of his body at the dog, lifting the hand not behind his head to wag a finger at him.  
     “Oh no. No, no, no.” Warning unheeded, Trailer dropped the newspaper so that it rested against Pete's ankles. “You don't get to make this better by giving me your favourite toy like the last time.” He nudged the plasticized replica of 'The Daily Bugle' with a toe, easing it off of him and letting it fall to the floor. Trailer watched it fall and then brought his big yellow eyes back to Pete. “This is so totally different.” He huffed, finally sitting up just as Trailer sat down. “You tried to **eat** me.” He accused, eyes narrowing in anger, face shadowed with hurt. “I thought we were friends, man.” Trailer shifted on his paws and let out a small, quiet whine. Pete shrugged. “Sure, you say that now,” he flung an arm out, gesturing towards where Trailer was sitting, “but not too long ago you were sleeping right there, ripping me to tiny little Pete-pieces!” Trailer huffed a hoarse and almost soundless bark, dancing back and forth on his paws, but Pete shook his head, apparently not buying whatever it was Trailer was offering. “You **consumed my flesh** , Tray. How would you like it if I tried to turn you into a canine kebab?” The dog cocked his head, but made no further sound, and Pete shuddered his distaste as he probed his midsection with his index fingers then rubbed his palms over his thighs. “See how you enjoy having **your** limbs gnawed on like chew toys.” He squeezed his legs. “Nothing but chewy, chewy muscle my friend. I hope they gave you jaw ache.”  
     A few moments of impossibly tense silence passed as they regarded one another, Pete's expression far more befitting a man who had recently been attacked by a very close, human, friend. In real life. Then, as if deciding to be the bigger person, Trailer slowly padded forward and dropped his head to rest his fluffy chin atop the hand closest to him.  
     His unwavering yellow-eyed gaze bore into Pete, conveying something through the silence in the way that only dogs and very determined babies could.  
     The seconds ticked by, but didn't quite reach the minute mark before Pete slid his hand out from under Trailer's head and brought the palm down between the dogs ears with a sigh.  
     “You know I can't stay mad at you when you look at me like that.” He rubbed the spot, making Trailer's ears flap, and then held the his furry face in his hands. “You're really sorry?” Trailer didn't so much as bat an eye, but Pete seemed to catch something in the dog's expression. “And you promise never to eat me again unless the apocalypse happens, and the only way you can survive is by feasting on my carcass?” Trailer let out a noise that lay somewhere between a huff and a snuffle, and it appeared as though that was good enough for Pete. “Okay then. We can be buds again.” He dropped his hands from the dog's face and held one towards the animal. Trail complied, sitting and then lifting a paw for Pete to shake. “Good boy.” Satisfied, Pete lay back against the couch cushions, arm falling over the side like before, only instead of flicking channels he dangled it low enough to be able to run his fingers through Trailer's fur as the dog curled up on the floor beside him. Eyes focused once more on the television set, Pete let out a quiet noise of triumph. “Man, I love the ones were he jumps into a woman's body.” He paused, expression slipping slightly. “Although after actually living that, maybe it'll lose some of its humour.” And they slipped into silence, waiting to see if Pete's theory had any truth to it.

* * *

     Claudia loved her room at the bed and breakfast. Before her parents had died, they'd largely taken care of the decorating for her and she'd been young enough that the want to express herself through inanimate objects hadn't really taken hold yet. Then they'd... gone. And Joshua had vanished too, and she'd had a room all to herself at 'the big house', but hadn't exactly been in the right frame of mind to really utilize the space. That room had been stark, bare, cold and unfeeling. It had suited her at the time.  
     But now, she'd grown into her own person, developed her own tastes and styles, and her room at Leena's reflected all of that. From her guitars to the elaborate computer set-up, to the colour of her bedspread; it was all very 'Claudia'. Framed pictures were strategically scattered about the place, able to be seen from almost any angle. Ones of her and Joshua, the both of them with their parents, and more recent ones showing her laughing and smiling with her Warehouse family, along with one of a dead-to-the-world Pete who'd made the mistake of passing out on the sofa in the living room one afternoon and had subsequently received a make over that they'd all gleefully had a hand in. He looked good all dolled up, even with the drool. Trashy, but good.  
     There was one of Steve sitting atop the shelf below the circular window of her room and she stared up at it now from her position splayed horizontally across her bed. A light rapping against her open door pulled her attention away to find Steve hovering at the threshold.  
     “Hey.” He breathed, offering a d nervous smile, and she pushed herself into a sitting position, lifting her legs to fold them beneath her.  
     “Hi.” Unconsciously, she touched a hand to her midsection before she realised what she was doing and dropped it into her lap. Arms crossed over his chest, Steve shifted on the spot, Claudia's intense gaze on him making him feel edgy.  
     “So, uh...” He started, then wondered why he had and let the sentence trail away. It had all felt **so** real. He could still feel the machete in his grasp, still hear Claudia's scream as he plunged it      “You totally stabbed me, dude.” Her tone was deadpan, unimpressed, and he winced visibly. Narrowing his eyes and twisting his lips into a grimace.  
     “Yeah.” He stared down at the carpet, suddenly finding it endlessly interesting as chagrin settled over him like a cloak. Heavy, tight around his throat. He could **see** the life leaving her eyes as she bled out, warm red liquid spilling from the wound like an unholy fountain of youth. He raised a hand, letting the other fall to his side, and rubbed at the back of his neck as he brought his gaze up to meet her, shame written across his features. Normally, he could read Claudia fairly well, but he couldn't gauge what she might be feeling at that moment. Maybe his     own emotions were throwing him off.  
     “Like, right in my gut.” She pointed out, in case somehow he'd missed that detail of their shared nightmare. He pinched the bridge of his nose, screwing his eyes shut, and released his words alongside a heavy sigh.  
     “I know.” He hadn't missed a singe second of it. Was sure its memory would be burned to the back of his eyelids for the remainder of his life. A life she'd given him back. And he'd repaid the favour by offing her in his dream. Yes, it had all been because of an artifact, and while no one was really sure what exactly it had done to them all besides the immediate obvious, he couldn't help the sinking feeling that somehow it was his fault. That his subconscious had tapped into some dark side of him. Maybe it was a side effect of the metronome. The thought made him feel even more ill. Claudia blinked at him, expression still unreadable.  
     “I mean If you'd got me in the heart, at least it would have been over quickish,” she tilted her head, scrunching up her nose, “but you kinda left me hanging there for a while.” He dropped his hand, letting it sway absently at his side, and narrowed his eyes at her. Because that had sounded a lot like a joke. And jokes were good, unless they were the practical kind that involved a hand in warm water or dog poop. He gestured towards her with a finger and risked a half-smile.  
     “You **did** call me a 'zombie bastard'.” He pointed out, earning a pair of incredulously raised eyebrows.  
     “And that's grounds for homicide now?” He dropped his hand again, slipping both into the confines of his jeans once more as he shook his head.  
     “No.” He pursed his lips, then sheepishly added, “Was kinda hurtful though.” Claudia rolled her eyes at him.  
     “Sorry, I guess I wasn't thinking clearly what with being stalked by an undead psycho killer.” She said, oozing a false sincerity that was so obvious it bordered on offensive “I felt like the prized turkey at thanksgiving.” And she sounded so disgusted, he couldn't help but grin as he quirked his brow and offered his consolation.  
     “At least I didn't stuff you?” Her mouth dropped open and she sputtered for a half-second.  
     “Jinksy!” She looked a mix between horrified and traumatized, with just a dash of amusement sprinkled over top. It was enough to send his shoulders shaking with quiet laughter.  
     “Sorry, sorry.” He repeated the word, though the pair of them knew there was no truth to it either time it was spoken. He moved into the room, flopping down into the striped chair beside the door and rhythmically patted the arms of it with flattened palms a few times. “So... what do we do now?” She rested her elbows against her knees and bridged her fingers together in front of her, falling silent for a long moment, seemingly mulling over his question. Then she folded down each digit save for her index fingers and pointed them at him.  
     “You apologise for systematically hunting and murdering me.” He nodded at the question, only vaguely aware of how this conversation might sound to anyone overhearing who was unaware of the events that had transpired over the evening.  
     “I think that's a given.” He admitted and she nodded wordlessly at him before continuing.  
     “And then you promise to take me out for ice-cream tomorrow.” He tried very hard not to let the fact that his heart was rapidly swelling with affection show on his face, but would never be sure of whether or not he'd achieved that. Claudia was a best friend and sister all rolled into one, and sometimes she so effortlessly exuded both that it just made his chest ache with adoration. Olivia and he had spent many an afternoon as the ice-cream parlour in their town, scarfing down sundaes in a booth, or taking a cone to go, it had been their 'thing'. And when once he would have thought that doing such a simple thing with someone other than his sister would have hurt too much to even attempt, he felt nothing but warmth within him at Claudia's suggestion. It felt right, the idea of it.  
     “Ice-cream fixes all things, huh?” He said around a wry smile.  
     “Only when you're buying.” She shot back, unfolding her legs to kick off her boots. “Which you are.” Just in case he had any qualms about that. She swivelled on the bed, this time flopping down so that her head hit the pillows, and she gazed up at the ceiling with a dreamy expression. “Maybe I’ll get a waffle cone.” Her tone of voice was hushed, wistful, like that of a child exclaiming that one day they **would** go to Disneyland, no matter what. Steve held his hands up, evoking the memory of an inexperienced ranch hand attempting to calm a spooked stallion.  
     “Easy there, big spender. I'm not made of money.” Claudia scoffed loudly, shooting him a pointed glance before turning her attention back to the ceiling and letting out a dreamy sigh.  
     “Maybe I’ll get **two** waffle cones.” He chuckled and her lips curved into a smile, but it vanished before it could meet her eyes. “Wait, if you were Jason, does that mean I was a slutty camp counsellor?” He laughed again, more exuberant and shook his head disapprovingly.  
     “Too busy getting down to pay attention to the drowning child.” She let her head loll to the side so that she was facing him and Steve frowned at her. “Why would you do that?” He asked hurt, blue eyes sad. “Maybe **I'm** the one who deserves a waffle cone.”  
     “Hey, I brought you back from the dead once already. The least you owe me is ice-cream.”

* * *

     It wasn't that Myka hadn't noticed her leave. She had, of course she had. She felt H.G.'s absence, any kind of absence for any length of time, more acutely than anyone else likely did. Be it time away in an ominous black sphere, in Regent custody, or simply a venture into the kitchen to make herself a cup of tea. Myka felt each absence keenly. So yes, she had been all too aware when Helena had finally dropped the hand she'd been staring at with something akin to mingled remorse and horror, and finally stood to leave. Leg brushing Myka's knees as she slipped by Pete and Steve. And just like always, there was something at the back of Myka's mind imploring her to give chase. To go after the other woman, lest she vanish into thin air or be spirited away under the cover of night once more.  
     But there had been a promise, taking its first breath of life as a subtle glint in dark eyes and then later given voice on the day Helena had returned. An excited Claudia had all but squealed her delight, before sobering longer enough to inquire as to whether or not H.G. was “back like passing visit or back like 'hey! Lets break my room out of the vault'?” Helena's gaze had strayed to Myka's for the hundredth time since she'd stepped into the room thirty seconds ago as she informed them that she was there to say. If they'd have her.  
     And it was the memory of that promise that stopped Myka from bolting once she broke from her reverie after a long few minutes of reflection.  
     It had all seemed so real, but then that was the thing about dreams wasn't it? Especially those enhanced by artifacts. Even as she'd brushed her fingers over her own cheek, she could still feel the intimate caress of the blades Helena had wielded, sharpened and affixed to a worn leather glove, just beginning to bite into her skin. Looking back on the dream, she knew it was all a figment of someone else's imagination. A nightmare that a movie-maker had thought up after spying a strange-looking man and having one too many bad night's sleep. But while it was happening, Myka had been terrified.  
     Of Helena.  
     In the past, she'd been scared for her, of the repercussions her actions might have, but never of her. Not even in Yellowstone. It was an unpleasant feeling that still lingered. A heavy weight against her chest that made it just that little bit more difficult to breathe. So she'd let Helena ago, in order to catch her breath. In the hopes that by the time she went looking for her, which Myka had no doubt that she would, Helena would have had time to catch her own.  
     Of course with Helena, it seemed that there was never enough time. Still, Myka made her way in off the porch and ignored the niggling prickles of fear making her stomach roll. She caught sight of Pete's head resting against the arm of the couch as she passed by the doorway and noted the tip of Trailer's tail peaking out from around the side with a smile. At least the animals of the house had worked out their differences.  
     Right on cue, the second stair from the top creaked under Myka's weight and the knowledge of her journey nearing its end pulled anxiety through her, making her pause. It had been a dream, nothing more, Myka knew that. It was the idea of attempting to convince Helena of that truth that had her worried. Absently gnawing at her lower lip, Myka took her hand from atop the banister and pushed herself back into motion, forcing her feet to take her the few steps to Helena's door. She stilled before its surface, holding her breath without reason to as she did nothing but listen. She could hear the faint sounds of conversation flowing out from Claudia's room, the low hum of the television downstairs, maybe even the whirring cogs of her mind as it raced, but no sound came from inside the room she stood before. Her attention snapped away as she heard the sound of a door opening and she exhaled a little more nosily than she would have preferred upon seeing Steve exiting Claudia's room. Their eyes met and he froze, hand just able to tug the door closed as he became the human embodiment of a deer caught in the headlights. Myka noted with an inward wry smile that he looked exactly how she felt.  
     They didn't exchange a single word as he released the doorknob and shot her a tentative smile before padding across the hall to his own room, but he hung in the doorway long enough for Myka to glance at him over her shoulder. He flashed a second, stronger smile, one reflected in his eyes, and gave her an encouraging thumbs-up. Her lips curved, despite herself, and she almost chuckled. Steve was a good guy. He offered a small wave and then disappeared behind his closed door, leaving Myka to steal her nerves and draw in another lungful of air.  
     Eventually, though she hadn't been paying attention to the seconds as they ticked by for her own sense of self-sanity, Myka lifted her hand to knock.  
     There was no answer, but Myka hadn't expected there to be. She twisted the door handle and slipped into darkness.  
     It took a long moment for her eyes to adjust. The curtains were drawn, blocking out any potential moonlight, and Helena was not bathed in the soft glow from her reading lamp as she usually was at this time of evening. Many times, Myka had come to the room to find the inventor engrossed in one of the many works of literature she had missed during her 'incarceration' and subsequently vowed to catch up on. In the dimness, Myka could not find Helena at all.  
     So she stood, feeling isolated from all the world in her shadowed pocket, until she began to see shapes forming; a bookshelf, a chair, and finally a bed. And in it, the still form of a woman with her back to Myka, hair the colour of night splayed out across a pale blue pillowcase. At the sight, something pulled at Myka, deep within her chest and like plucking a guitar string, it reverberated to the farthest most edges of her body, filling her so completely she was unable to do anything but go along with the vibrations.  
     They moved her forward, towards the bed, and as she moved she was momentarily thrown back into her dream-scape, where she had similarly been incapable of controlling her own movements and had been unable to stop running or fight against Helena's tight grip on her. Had been unable to slip away from the woman who, Myka had believed beyond a shadow of a doubt, intended to kill her once the grip had lessened and then vanished completely. She'd been as helpless as if she were chained to a wall and the memory sent an echo of fear trickling along her spine.  
     “Helena?” But she pushed it away. It did not belong, not now, hadn't belonged when her world had been turned upside down by the business end of a trident. She did not receive an answer and was wholly unsurprised by that, and so it didn't stop her. She crept closer until she stood at the edge of the single bed and there was only a heart beat or two of hesitation before she pulled back the covers, and climbed in.  
     It was a tight squeeze that would have proved to be tighter still had Helena not given in and scooted closer to the wall that her bed was pushed up against. But somehow they fit, just like they always had, and Myka settled the blanket back down over them.  
     She could hear her heart pounding in her ears and wondered what percentages of the reasons behind that fell where. Anxiety because of the dream, the inventor's obvious grief over it, the fact that this was the closest they had ever been? They all threw in their contributions and left her feeling befuddled and confused, but not about the woman she was now sharing a bed with. The woman who was as stiff and rigid as a cardboard cut-out.  
     Sheets rustled audibly in the quiet of the room as Myka slid her hand over the inventor's hip and snaked an arm around her waist. The pressure from her hold was light, not possessive or demanding, and the only intention behind it one born from the urge to comfort. Myka could only guess her actions had had the opposite effect when Helena's breath hitched in surprise at the contact and she managed to stiffen impossibly further. But Myka said nothing, and instead tried to will her heart to beat a little quieter and her hands not to shake.  
     They lay there in the silence, Myka curled around a pillar of stone, until the pillar finally began to give a little. The incessant pulling of an invisible rope finally tumbling her and she didn't so much relax against Myka as she loosened a little.  
     “It was just a dream.” Myka whispered, hoping Helena would not tense again with such a force that she was absently surprised she wasn't clinging to the woman. She didn't, merely let out a dry laugh void of even the smallest glimmer of humour.  
     “A dream in which I had a starring role as a child killer and pressed fingers made from knives against your throat.” A memory flared to life; the muggy, unbearable heat of a boiler room and fire so bright it hurt her eyes to think of it. And then Myka thought of Christina, lost so long ago and yet still felt so keenly in the present. Helena blamed herself, had said as much in private moments during that time before Yellowstone, and Myka had never once wondered if that particular evening had been part of the inventor's plan. It hadn't, looking back on it was all the confirmation of that she needed.  
     “You're not a killer.” She echoed Helena's own words, spoken to her a lifetime ago on a college campus that had seen its fair share of tragedy and enough combusting teens for a millennia. Things had been so delightfully easy then, when Myka was the good cop and H.G. the 'typical bad guy of the week', only without the typical part. Everything had been black and white until shades of grey had started to leak in at the edges, and then soon enough everything was shades of grey. Confusing and undistinguishable. Then the world had exploded into colour, shades Myka hadn't even known existed, and for a while she'd been blinded by it.  
     But that seemed like so long ago now.  
     “You're not a killer.” And the woman she was pressed against had changed so much and so little in the time that had passed. But Myka could still feel the razor-sharp curves of the Helena's blades slicing into her flesh, so cleanly that at first there had been no pain at all, only thin rivulets of blood trickling along her cheek.  
     “I'm the reason those boys died in Egypt.” And distracted, Myka hadn't seen that argument coming, despite all the neon signs that had pointed in its direction. “Their blood and that of the monsters who murdered my daughter stains my hands.” She could see Helena's face even though she was staring at the back of her dark head and Myka felt that same pang of something flicker to life, twang like a plucked string.  
     “Not your hands.” Myka heard herself say before her brain had finished formulating words that were no less sincere because of that. “You aren't that person any more.” It was everything she'd wanted to tell the other woman and yet nowhere near enough. There weren't words for the things she wanted to say, so she pressed her palm against the flat of Helena's stomach and spoke with the kind of urgent desperation someone who was attempting to talk someone down from a rooftop might use. “It was a dream, Helena.” And the rise and fall of the inventor's stomach was rapid beneath her hand, but Myka did not move it. “Your guilt coming through by way of your subconscious.” There came another deep inhalation of breath and then;  
     “Perhaps it was **your** dream.” Helena said with an almost undetectable tremor in her voice. Almost, but Myka noticed everything. “Your fear.” And at that the cord inside of her was plucked so firmly, so harshly, it snapped, and sent her words flying forth with the kind of conviction that one could not hope to argue with.  
     “I'm not afraid of you.” Helena did not laugh or scoff and there trailed a long pause of silence in the wake of Myka's statement. Then suddenly Helena was moving, shifting awkwardly in the small space, and Myka's arm only moved because H.G. did, and would have otherwise remained firm.  
     “How can you not be?” Helena asked, dark eyes narrowed slightly beneath the frown she wore as she faced Myka. “After all I've done. Almost done.” Her tone was sombre and remorseful, laced with an inability to understand that would not diminish over time, and Myka's hand, now resting atop the other woman's hip, gave the flesh and bone under it a gentle squeeze.  
     “Because I love you.” It was not what she had planned to say. She'd wanted to explain that the woman Helena had been and the woman she was now were worlds apart, even if they inhabited the same body. One had made the other and the other could not have been if not for one. And as much as everything had hurt, Myka didn't know if she'd change anything, if given the opportunity. She'd go along with all the lies and the treachery if it meant they would eventually reach this place. Blanketed by darkness, in a bed too small for the both of them, with Helena staring at her as if Myka had just told her, well, that she loved her. Something she expected Helena had never dared hope to hear.  
     “You shouldn't.” The words were filled with pain and weariness, remnants of a battle won and lost in a heartbeat. All the weakness and vulnerability that Helena did so well to hide in the daylight tumbled forth, one tripping over the other in their haste and shining like stars in watery eyes. Myka lifted her hand from the inventor's hip and used the pad of her thumb to brush away a lone tear that had broken off from the pack and escaped.  
     “Never stopped me before.” She said it with the insinuation of a shrug and the real warmth of a smile, and it took a moment, but eventually Myka saw the icy surface crack and fall away, revealing the woman Helena had been earlier that night. The woman who had tentatively welcomed Myka in past her walls.  
     And though they might never know what their nightmare had been destined to represent, if it had been destined to represent anything at all, it had served a purpose in bringing them together. Had finally pushed them into closing the remaining distance that lingered between them, and for the last time that night they shared the same thought.  
     Nothing else mattered.


End file.
